- Imbibe the oil and wine which the
compassion of a stranger, as he journeyeth on his way, now pours
into thy wounds; - the Being, who has twice bruised thee, can only
bind them up for ever.
THE BOURBONNNOIS.
There was nothing from which I had painted out for my self so
joyous a riot of the affections, as in this journey in the vintage,
through this part of France; but pressing through this gate, of
sorrow to it, my sufferings have totally unfitted me. In every
scene of festivity, I saw Maria in the background of the piece,
sitting pensive under her poplar; and I had got almost to Lyons
before I was able to cast a shade across her.
- Dear Sensibility! source inexhausted of all that's precious in
our joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down
upon his bed of straw - and 'tis thou who lift'st him up to Heaven!-
-Eternal Fountain of our feelings! - 'tis here I trace thee - and
this is thy "DIVINITY WHICH STIRS WITHIN ME;" - not that, in some
sad and sickening moments, "MY SOUL SHRINKS BACK UPON HERSELF, AND
STARTLES AT DESTRUCTION;" - mere pomp of words! - but that I feel
some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself; - all comes
from thee, great - great SENSORIUM of the world! which vibrates, if
a hair of our heads but falls upon the ground, in the remotest
desert of thy creation. - Touch'd with thee, Eugenius draws my
curtain when I languish - hears my tale of symptoms, and blames the
weather for the disorder of his nerves.
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